


Harringrove for RAICES

by ImNeitherNor



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Harringrove for Raices, M/M, donation writing, general cuteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-01 21:13:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20406523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImNeitherNor/pseuds/ImNeitherNor
Summary: Each chapter will be a piece written for Harringrove for RAICES.





	1. Letshargroovetonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [letshargroovetonight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/letshargroovetonight/gifts), [sirsparklepants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirsparklepants/gifts), [blahblahblahcollapse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blahblahblahcollapse/gifts).

[Prompt: Steve manages to pull Billy free of the Mind Flayer's hold for just a moment. ANGST!]

_ The coolness of the leather beneath his back is like butter, soft and pliant, a stark contrast to the way Billy’s lips feel against his own, chapped and bordering desperate. The sharp tange of whiskey on Billy’s tongue, the remnants of smoke in Steve’s BMW, reminds him that just seconds before, he and Billy were ready to throw down again over what band was better: the Beatles or Metallica _ .

Looking back on it, Steve realizes just how idiotic that fight would have been. Now, with his arms pulled taut and his toes barely touching the ground, music taste seems trivial in the face of whatever hides in the shadows of the warehouse. One is a monster with too many legs. The other has bright blue eyes and a mean smile with calloused hands and an attitude that matches. But he isn’t a monster. Steve  _ knows _ he isn’t a monster.

Time doesn’t exist here, so Steve isn’t sure how long he’s hanging until the sound of heavy boots echos in his ears. When he looks up, blue eyes, hazy enough to sleet them gray, meet his. There isn’t the usual crease of frustration between Billy’s eyebrows. There isn’t the twitch of his lips when he’s fighting a smile or flicking his tongue out over his lower lip. His expression is almost entirely blank except for the mild interest.

“Steve Harrington,” the voice that comes out of Billy’s is his but  _ it isn’t _ . It’s low and vibrates through Steve’s body, sinking into his bones. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

That’s  _ cute _ , Steve thinks, memories of heat and the smell of gasoline and fire in his nose, his throat, making him dizzy. He flinches as that thing slides Billy’s hand over his jaw, thumb pressing over his lower lip. The pressure is enough to sting.

“I started listening to Metallica,” Steve offers, “I have both of the albums.  _ Kill ‘em All  _ and  _ Ride the Lightning _ . The Beatles are still better--”

Steve flinches as that thumb presses his lower lip to his teeth hard enough to make his eyes water. He breathes through it and searches Billy’s eyes for any recognition. 

“What about butter pecan?” Steve breathes out around that thumb, “and sundaes and drinking shitty beer by the quarry--”

Blood spills over his tongue from his lower lip where his teeth cut in, but Steve keeps going. He can see the blue, bright behind that haze. 

“What about the first time we kissed?” Tears well over Steve’s lower lashes, “ _ Billy _ .”

When it happens, Steve can see it. There’s a subtle shift in how Billy’s body is held. It’s the way his breathing falters and how the pressure on his lip goes from painful to a light brush. It’s the tears that spill over Billy’s cheeks. More importantly, it’s the way the grip on his body loosens enough that his feet fall flat onto the floor. Steve tugs his arms free and immediately wraps them around Billy’s shoulders.

“Come back to me,” Steve manages through the burning in his throat while Billy’s body tenses and relaxes in waves of muscle spasms. “We can--”

“Get out,” is all he gets in return before Billy yanks out of his arms and stumbles back, “get out.  _ Run _ .”

“Billy--”

“Get.  _ Out _ ,” Billy snarls it out and Steve can feel the ground shudder as that thing begins to coagulate in the shadows. “ _ Run _ , Steve!”

Steve does, but not before he grabs Billy’s shirt and yanks him forward, their lips crashing together in a terrible mix of desperation and hurt. “I’m coming back for you,” Steve promises, Jane in the back of his mind as he turns on his heel and leaves the warehouse in his peripheral. 

He thinks he might have imagined it, but he swears he heard  _ I love you _ as he ran.


	2. SirSparklePants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Steve is trying to help Billy get through quitting his smoking habit. For @sirsparklepants on Tumblr!

  


Steve has one important opinion of Billy at the moment: he should have _ never _ stopped smoking.

First it’s gum. Cinnamon flavored, specifically. Then mint. Then those weird, Bazooka squares with the little comic strips in them. After that, Billy complains that his jaw is too sore to suck Steve’s dick or take a face fucking like he _ likes_, sneer and all. That, Steve thinks, is the only time Billy ever actually shuts up--when he’s got a throat full of Steve’s dick. Even then, sometimes he can get bratty.

That’s what Steve calls him now: bratty. He was an asshole before the night they stumbled into each other’s arms for solace after that last battle. He was an asshole even while recovering, bed ridden and spitting mad. He was an asshole whenever Steve put frozen vegetables on scars that were still too tender. 

One night and a horror movie just for _ fun _ changed all of that. Billy wouldn’t admit that it left him uncomfortable, like he needed to crawl out of his own skin and into Steve’s. He basically _ did _ at around three in the morning, invading Steve’s personal space in his bed and grumbling _ shut the fuck up, Harrington _ and _ don’t talk about this to anyone_.

Because, despite the battle and Billy’s new scars, he still wants to keep up his facade. He still sports his chest openly and sneers at anyone who looks too long. The battle and the aftermath aren’t what’s picking at Billy’s last nerve, though--it’s his lack of _ smokes_.

And at this rate, _ Steve _ might kill someone.

“Popsicles?” Steve offers as he leans against the freezer door of the ice cream isle, “Freezies?”

“I could just give you head,” Billy mutters and Steve nearly chokes on a breath, “that’ll fix it.”

“You can’t just--that isn’t--_ Billy_\--” Steve’s cheeks mottle pink as he rips open the freezer door and grabs a box of popsicles. “Aren’t we supposed to be, like, _ discreet_?”

Billy looks around the store and then drags his attention back to Steve. “I don’t see anyone,” he says, a drawl that ticks at Steve’s patience. 

“Yeah, sure, why not?” Steve huffs as he drops another box of what look like frozen fruit bars into the basket, “just throw me into a closet and give me head. Like _ that’s _ the answer to all of your problems.”

Billy actually looks like he’s considering it.

“Lollipops,” Steve cuts in as he grabs a handful of Billy’s jacket and tugs him toward the candy aisle.

“Like _ Blow Pops_?” Billy’s grin is contagious. Steve fights it, ducking his head as he coughs into his sleeve. 

“Like _ Sugar Daddys_,” Steve rolls his eyes.

“So, you want me sucking on Blow Pops and calling you Sugar Daddy?” Billy runs his fingers over his jaw, as if in thought, and Steve considers punching him.

“You just want a reason to call me daddy,” Steve squats down to pick up a bag of Blow Pops while pointedly avoiding Billy’s eyes. 

“Maybe I just want a reason to blow you,” Billy counters. Steve laughs as he drops the bags into the basket.

“You gotta have a reason? It’s not like I’m going to turn that down,” Steve straightens up and smiles at Billy. He always notices how it makes Billy falter, how he’ll look at Steve a couple of seconds longer, just taking him in, like Steve smiling at him is some sort of gift. It makes Steve feel seen in a way he hasn’t in a long time.

~

The lollipops end up being a winner. Billy, unbeknownst to most, has a sweet tooth that rivals Dustin’s. He picks through the flavors--eating his least favorite first (grape) and his favorite last (strawberry). It’s rare to see Billy without lollipops in his pockets or a toothpick in his mouth. His tongue is always stained pink, and he tastes like a mix of fruit and coke during the day and fruit and beer at night.

“I think it’s more than just smoking,” Steve speculates, propped up on the lounger by the pool. “Even when he wasn’t smoking, he was chewing on gum or sticking his tongue out.” He makes a face as Robin snorts. She’s taking in every ounce of simplistic pleasure before she heads off for college. Steve doesn’t blame her. He didn’t get in anywhere, but that doesn’t mean he’s completely fucked. 

“Are we _ seriously _ talking about Billy’s mouth right now?” Robin shoots Steve a look bordering incredulous. “We could be talking about, I don’t know--”

“Stacey?” Steve grins and Robin swats at him. “You do realize how _ stuck up _ she is, right?”

“Whatever, dingus,” Robin rolls her eyes, “that won’t matter soon, anyway. I’ll be in college and there will be more than just stuck up girls.”

“Yeah, _ educated _ stuck up girls,” Steve looks up as the sound of the BMW rolls into the driveway. “Can you believe I got dating advice from _ Billy _? He said there were plenty of bitches in the sea, so--” 

“_Anyway_,” Robin pushes herself up and wiggles her eyebrows, “_I’m _ not sticking around to deal with Billy. And by the way? It’s called an oral fixation.”

~

“An oral _ what_?” Billy looks halfway between appalled and amused that Steve brought up his apparent “oral fixation.” His bright blue eyes are on him, calculating like they always are, and Steve has to keep himself from laughing at his expression. 

“Fixation,” Steve flops down next to Billy on the couch and pushes a beer into his palm. “You know, always gotta have something in your mouth? Even if it isn’t a cigarette?”

“That sounds fucking stupid,” Billy mutters and he starts tapping the fingers of his free hand on his knee in a specific rhythm, over and over. It’s one of the things he started doing after quitting. 

“It would explain a lot, though.”

“What, suddenly you’re a genius?”

“Billy, don’t be an asshole.”

“I’m _ not_. I just don’t think I have a fucking oral fixation because someone _ says so_.”

“It’s not that you _ do_. I’m just saying that it could--”

“Is liking dick not enough for you?” 

The question throws Steve off. Whenever Billy gets especially irritated, he goes for blows he thinks will hurt the most. Steve knows that he doesn’t mean it, in that moment, that he’s just frustrated, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

“You are enough for me,” Steve settles on, refusing to give into the jab and the bait Billy swings in front of him, “with or without the cigarettes, Billy.”

“Yeah? And when you want kids? What then? Or when you want to get married? Buy a fucking house with a white picket fence? I don’t _ get that _ , Steve. I can’t have that. I’m not _ allowed _ to have it.” Billy’s expression pinches off into something torn between anger and frustration. Steve gets it. At least, he thinks he does. Whenever Billy snaps, it’s usually about something that originally hadn’t been brought up between the two of them. He had never ranted about being gay, about the kind of lifestyle that came with that, what he obviously believes are deadends and unwalkable paths.

“Your dad told you that,” Steve manages to keep his voice calm. Billy isn’t attacking _ him_. It sounds like he is, but Steve knows that all of this is pointed directly at Billy. He has a weird way of communicating his anger and it’s taken some time for Steve to figure it out. It just hurts that Billy thinks like this in the first place.

“Like you would fucking know.”

Steve would, is the thing, but he runs his fingers through his hair and exhales slowly as Billy gets up and walks away from him. That’s another thing that Billy does--when he’s afraid he’s going to _ truly _ do damage to Steve, he’ll walk away. He always walks away.

~

When it rains, it pours. 

That same night, Steve goes to bed alone. Sometimes, Billy needs space. He has to think through his own shit and that’s _ fine_, it really is, even if it leaves Steve feeling out of sorts and terrified that he might wake up and Billy will be gone. He thinks-- _ knows_\--it has something to do with his parents, with Nancy, with everyone who has ever told him he’s important and then just. . . left. On several occasions, Billy has told him he isn’t going anywhere, so Steve closes his eyes and drifts off, hoping to see that shark-like smile and bright blue eyes in the morning.

Steve wakes up around four, and he only knows that because of the dim light his alarm clock is giving off. He twists in his sheets and pauses. Billy is tucked up against the other side of the bed, clad in sweats and a hoodie. Steve knows he’s awake because he can hear his stuttered breathing. He can see the way his ribcage expands and shudders. Billy doesn’t make a sound when he cries, just like Steve learned how to move through the house like he doesn’t exist when his parents are home.

Billy always acts like he hates it when Steve gets close, when he tries to comfort him, but he never actively stops him. Steve scoots up behind Billy, spooning him against his chest and holding him in the cradle of his hips. He’s surprised when Billy doesn’t push him away, and that surprise is dwarfed by the fluttering in his stomach when Billy takes Steve’s hand and guides it to his lips. Billy kisses his knuckles, the tips of his fingers. He kisses the heart of his palm and Steve closes his eyes again.

“Is this as good as Blow Pops?” Steve teases with the knowledge that if he goes too deep, Billy might shy away or duck his affection.

“Better,” Billy’s voice catches and Steve feels another press of his lips against his palm, “I don’t love Blow Pops.”

Steve smiles and leans forward to press a kiss against the back of Billy’s shoulder. He doesn’t say it, but it’s there: _ I love you, too_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me at ImNeitherNor on Tumblr! :)


	3. Blahblahblaharringrove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This piece was done as a gift for @blahblahblaharringrove on Tumblr by anon! Love you, Ty! I hope you love it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Steve helps Billy recover after the final battle and it may include a cat... and a lot of plants. Somewhat inspired by @gabbia's art of Billy in what looks like a green room with a calico.  
Warnings: None. General flashbacks to the battle.  
Also, PS: this is all from Billy's perspective. We see none of Steve's thoughts or why he does what he does. :)

  


It all starts with a succulent that catches Billy’s eye in the doctor’s office. The petals are soft but firm, lightly coated in a fuzz that Billy can’t quite place. What he does know is it distracts him from the pain vibrating deep within his skin, his bones, the ruins left behind by a monster from another dimension. The rocks surrounded the plant are variations of opaque and brown. He doesn’t realize he’s touching the pot, the rocks and the small leaves, until the nurse pops out of the door and smiles at him and Steve. 

  


The doctor is evaluating his scars and Billy has already checked out mentally when he hears Steve asking the nurse about the plant. It’s distant, like a thrum against his skin, the brush of silk that smooths frayed nerves. He hears _succulent _and thinks it’s a weird word, but the doctor is poking and prodding scars given to him by a giant thing made out of peoples’ flesh and bones, so. 

  


Maybe _succulent_ isn’t so weird. 

  


~~ 

  


When Billy had been discharged from the hospital, Neil had taken it like a personal offense. In the middle of everything that had happened, Billy had turned eighteen. He wasn’t_ Neil’s_ problem anymore. He was old enough to be on his own, and as much as Billy had wanted to run from Neil, it was the only place he could even remotely call home. It was his only _okay space_ after his mind was ripped apart and his mother was thrown at him over and over, until he crumbled. 

  


He didn’t even have his Camaro anymore. 

  


Bandaged and mixed between spitting mad and a weird, distant acceptance, Billy had walked as far as his body would let him. When he couldn’t anymore, he sank down on a curb and tucked his knees up against his chest. He should have punched Neil. He should have ran his fist through his goddamn teeth. He should have screamed and caused a scene and made Neil as uncomfortable as he has always done to him. He didn’t, though. Part of him blamed his exhaustion. Part of him blamed his mother for showing up in that dark place, for touching his cheek and whispering such kind, nurturing words. 

  


She had abandoned him. It took a long time for him to understand that. It was going to take an even longer time for him to overcome his anger with her. 

  


“Hargrove?” 

  


Just like that, sitting on the curb on the side of the road, Steve Harrington found whatever minuscule affection his mom and dad had lost for him and managed to coax him into living at casa de Harrington. 

  


~~ 

  


“Billy? What’s up?” 

  


Steve asks that a lot. Billy knows what he’s really asking: _are you okay? What’s going on in your head? Are you with me? Where is your mind right now? _

  


Billy thinks about the curb, about his mother, about Neil. He thinks about Max’s _Billy! _

  


“Nothing.” 

  


They both know it’s far from the truth. 

  


~~ 

  


There’s a room in Steve’s house that welcomes the sun through large bay windows. It’s warm and sort of Billy’s favorite spot. Steve doesn’t ask him why he sprawls out on the floor and just lies there. He’s thankful for that and everything else Steve is doing, even if he doesn’t say it. Billy believes his way of showing gratitude might be in how he doesn’t fight everything Steve offers or does tooth and nail like he used to. 

  


Sometimes, he thinks Steve wishes he would respond to his little barbs or references to their past together, just to see Billy respond or hear him speak. Just to see the spark that Billy always had in the sharpness of his grin and the sway of his hips. Just to have _anything _that isn't the shell he is now. 

  


“Hey,” Steve’s voice filters into the room and Billy opens his eyes, torn out of his thoughts and into the present. He blinks and looks up. Steve is leaning against the frame of the door and watching him with a soft expression. “I know it gets lonely and I have to work a lot, so I thought… Uh,” Steve’s cheeks go pink, his eyes drop, and he scratches the back of his neck. “Do you want to go--I don’t know--look at… a pet, or something?” 

  


It’s the first time since the final battle that Billy has felt any sort of physical response in his body that isn't pain. His stomach flutters as he sits up, still careful of pulling or tugging too much at his wounds. 

  


“Cool,” Steve grins as their eyes finally meet, and it’s just as bright as the sun streaming into the room. 

  


Steve might be his favorite spot, too. 

  


~~ 

  


In the very back of the animal shelter, Billy finds a seven year old black cat with a white tuft on its chest. The shelter lead mentions that people who met the cat said there was something wrong with her. He doesn’t understand until she stands up. She’s missing a leg, and she’s seven, and Billy can’t leave her here. He glances at Steve who raises his eyebrows. 

  


“Now who’s adopting weirdos?” Steve teases and Billy snorts as he gathers her into his arms. She headbutts his jaw and promptly claws her way up onto his shoulder. He grins. 

  


She’s perfect. 

  


~~ 

  


It isn’t always perfect. 

  


The first succulent plant gets thrown out of the sliding glass door. Luckily, it isn’t _through _the door. Billy could have broken the glass, shattered it the way his mind still shatters into pieces when he takes the wrong mental step, but he can’t afford to be abandoned by Steve, too. Steve, who is standing and watching him go through emotions he can’t quite pin down or control. Steve, who purses his lips and then walks away from him. He thinks Steve might be walking away for good, and it makes his breathing heavier, his eyes sting, his mind warp. 

  


It’s his fault. He’s fucked up. He’s _so _fucked up. He can’t even verbalize why he’s so angry about a goddamn plant Steve bought for him. The sound of the pot smashing and then scattering into pieces across the cement isn’t even satisfying like breaking things used to be, and he misses that part of himself. He misses feeling _okay_, even if he was a little angry all the time. He misses feeling like one piece and not a million. He misses looking at Steve and only feeling fucked up because his body got too hot. He misses what was his normal. 

  


As soon as Steve is out of sight, Billy stumbles outside and kneels down. His whole body is numb as he begins to pick up the ceramic. The nicks and stings of his skin breaking open go unnoticed, and eventually, Billy can’t fucking pick up the pieces because the cement and stones and the plant are swimming. Dark gray splotches start decorating the concrete and he doesn’t have a free hand to swipe at his cheeks. 

  


Steve doesn’t touch him when he sits down next to him, but Billy knows he’s there because there’s the petulant _mrowr _Celest gives only when Steve holds her the wrong way. Claws poke at Billy’s forearm as she crawls into his lap to do what she does best: headbutt him right in the mouth. It’s when Billy feels her sandpaper-like tongue licking at his cheeks that he manages to smile. Steve takes his hands and turns them over. The glass falls into what sounds like a plastic bowl and then Steve is brushing his palms and fingers off, soaking up blood with paper towels. 

  


It’s the first time Steve ever really touches him, and Billy is immediately enraptured by how gentle he is, how Steve’s fingers slip between his own and brush so carefully over the damage he caused to himself. 

  


“I didn’t hate the plant,” Billy finally explains, even if he has to roll those words around his tongue before saying them. It’s as close to an_ I’m sorry _as he’ll get. 

  


“Pretty sure the plant hates you now,” Steve points out. "It's nice to see a little fire in you." 

  


Billy laughs and Steve’s fingers still against his own. When he looks over, still smiling from his laughter, Steve is watching him with a wide-eyed look Billy hasn’t caught before. Steve’s fingers tighten around his as he leans forward and Billy’s breath catches in his throat when their lips brush. It’s just as gentle as Steve’s hands. It’s sweeter than Billy ever imagined kissing Steve would be like. 

  


It’s cut short by Celest shoving her face between them and then they’re _both_ laughing. 

  


~~ 

  


The second succulent doesn’t become a victim of Billy’s anger. Instead, Steve brings him a shelf that needs assembling for the plant to sit on. It’s the best _you can do it on your own_ opportunity Billy has been given since his discharge. Putting together a shelf shouldn’t, in theory, be difficult, but the twisting and turning and movement is hard on what muscles he has left. By the time he’s done, he’s sweating and breathing a little too hard, but the shelf lines the entire wall of the room, and honestly? _Billy put it together_. He did it. He accomplished that, and he feels the echo of pride flicker through his chest. 

  


“It looks good,” Steve walks in and immediately hands Billy a glass of iced tea. It feels good on his tongue, his throat. It makes the heat of the job a little less suffocating. “It’s a little big for only one plant, though…” 

  


Steve is basically spoiling him, and Billy can see that. He knows, but it’s a crutch he’s learning to lean into while his body heals. 

  


“There’s a nursery,” Billy starts, licking along the line of his lips, “we could get more plants?” 

  


“Celest might like a kitty bed, too,” Steve hums as he slides his fingers over the shelf. Billy watches him, his eyes tracing the long line of his arms, his hand, his fingers that probably belong on a piano. Or a guitar. Maybe his body. “Are you okay sitting on the floor all the time or…?” 

  


It’s an invitation to make the room his own. Billy looks up at Steve and lets a slow smile tug at his lips. 

  


“Maybe something like a loveseat?” 

  


Steve smiles and Billy knows that he understands the implication, the statement he isn’t making below his question. 

  


“Sure. I guess it’s shopping time.” 

  


When Steve reaches out, splaying his fingers in an invitation, Billy tangles his with Steve’s and pulls himself up. 

  


~~ 

  


The nursery is hot, like Billy expects it to be. It’s pleasant, even if his shirt sticks to the small of his back. He watches Steve grab a cart and appreciates that he doesn’t offer it to Billy as something to lean on, to hold onto. Steve knows Billy will ask if he absolutely needs it. Well, he won’t _ ask _. He’ll say something that Steve will understand or maybe he might limp a little or list too much to the side. Either way, Billy hasn’t missed the small gestures that Steve has done to make him feel less like a burden. 

  


It works most of the time. 

  


“I don’t know a lot about plants,” Billy finally admits as they browse sections of greenery. 

  


“You’re lucky,” Steve grins, “because I had a nanny when I was younger. She was _ way _ into plants. The house was full of them. I mean, she quit eventually, but I learned some of the basics.” 

  


Steve’s rambling is borderline endearing. Billy isn’t used to him talking with passion and confidence. In the time he has spent living with Steve, he has met his parents exactly once. His mother was never without a wine glass in her delicate hands and his father acted like Steve was completely see-through; if he did have anything to say, it was usually demeaning, targeting Steve's intelligence or his lack of college plans with ruthless designs. Billy always managed to bite his lip and not say anything because it isn’t his business, but he and Steve spent a lot of time smoking pot and drinking when his parents finally left. 

  


As they walk through the various plants that Steve calls _house plants_, Billy points and asks questions and raises his eyebrow whenever he wants Steve to explain what he means. He watches that confidence grow through Steve's excitement and the way he talks with his hands. He never thought that watching Steve babble about plants would be hot, but here he is, admiring Steve and the softness of his fingers while he caresses the leaves of a spider plant. All he can think about are Steve’s lips and the way those fingers felt between his own, how they might feel across his scars, how maybe, if only for a second, they'd help him feel more like a human being. 

  


They spend almost an hour trailing through plants. Steve picks out a slew of them: the spider plant, a red prayer plant, a ficus danielle, a zebra plant, a couple of ferns that sit in pots _ and _ hang, a happy bean plant, a Chinese evergreen, a pothos, a peace lily, several different tiny cacti (which Billy fell in love with), snake plants, aloe vera, African violets and, of course, a bunch of succulents. 

  


“Would you go put the tarp down in the back seat?” Steve’s question pulls Billy back into the present and he nods. The plants, as a whole, will be expensive, and Steve knows his feelings about not being able to pay for things. Setting the tarp out is an invitation to walk away from it all, and Billy takes it eagerly. His muscles burn from all of the activity, but he lays the tarp out and then settles into the passenger seat to wait for Steve. 

  


~~ 

  


The furniture store is less walking, but a lot more sitting, experimenting. Steve and Billy end up on a deep blue loveseat with silver trim. Their hands land close between their knees. Billy feels the heat of Steve’s eyes on him and he looks over. Steve is smiling, raising an eyebrow, and Billy snorts as Steve hooks their pinkies together and squeezes. 

  


“This okay?” Steve asks quietly. For a second, Billy turns his palm over and laces his fingers with Steve’s. He squeezes back. 

  


“Yeah.” 

  


Billy knows they’re not just talking about the loveseat. 

  


~~ 

  


It takes almost an hour to set up the sunroom—unloading plants from the car, carrying them in, arranging them in a way that they both like, making sure the soil is wet, hanging the ones that need hanging, trimming dead leaves—and by the time they are done, Billy is ready to shower. The only issue? He pushed too much. His limbs feel like they are tied down by cinder blocks, pulling at his spine and at his freshly healed scars. Every movement is strenuous, but Billy is absolutely not climbing into bed smelling like sweat and dirt. 

  


Billy looks over all of the plants, the bright rays from the sun peeking through leaves and dappling the floor in random shapes. He’s resting against the opposite wall where the loveseat will go once it’s delivered, legs sprawled out in a wide V while listening to Steve rummaging in the kitchen. His eyelids droop shut. 

  


~~ 

  


“Billy?” 

  


_ It was seven feet tall_. 

  


“Billy?” 

  


_ You were happy. _

  


“Hey, you’re worrying me. Billy, come on.” 

  


_ Billy! _

  


Billy wakes up gasping and finds himself staring up into Steve’s eyes. His hands are on Steve’s arms, gripping his shirt, his knuckles white. Steve is crouched over him, bent at the knees. He swallows the dryness in his throat, the taste of salt, the lingering smokiness of death and decay. 

  


“You’re fine,” Steve reassures quietly, “you’re at my house. You’re alive. It’s okay, Billy. You just fell asleep. It’s okay.” His hands cup Billy’s jaw, his thumbs brushing up and back to swipe tears off his cheeks. “Are you with me?” Billy blinks. The questions make sense, in a distant, strange way. He tries to ground himself. He’s in the sunroom. It smells like soil and plants and flowers. He’s sweaty, but not bleeding. His body hurts, but there isn’t anything impaling him. He isn’t swallowing blood or black goop. Steve is stroking his cheeks. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s _fine_. 

  


“Billy?” Steve’s voice feels like a beacon, a tug at his mind, a lifesaver in the middle of the ocean. 

  


_ It was seven feet tall_. 

  


“I’m not…” Billy starts and he hates when his voice cracks. He hates that Steve waits, that he doesn’t press, that he won’t _make _him say it, that he’s patient and kind and-- 

  


Steve tips his face up and Billy breathes out his _I’m not okay _into the kiss. Steve’s thumbs still stroke along his cheeks, grounding him, keeping him from drowning in water that isn’t there. The kiss is slow and sweet, gentle and reassuring. Eventually, Steve breaks it to press their foreheads together. 

  


“It’s okay that you’re not okay,” Steve offers and it’s the first time in his life, maybe, that someone told him it was _okay_ that he was upset or angry or depressed or sad. It was always _be a man _and _respect and responsibility_ and _straighten up_. It was _don’t get sad, get mad. Don’t cry, fix it_. 

  


“Sleeping on this floor is probably terrible for you,” Steve continues, mercifully backing away from the topic, “let’s get a shower and crash, yeah?” 

  


Billy nods and Steve doesn’t say anything about how much of Billy’s weight he has to take on as he helps him to the bathroom. 

  


~~ 

  


It’s the end of September when the trees just start changing shades and the wind begins to have a small bite to it. It’s cool enough to wear a jacket in the morning and then not need it once the sun is all the way up in the sky. Steve apparently _ loves _the mornings. He will roll over and gently nudge Billy awake before the sun rises just to drag him out into the sunroom so they can press together underneath a thin blanket on the loveseat. Celest will always find her place across their laps. Billy doesn’t know what magic Steve worked with his parents, but the house is littered with cat toys and beds and the occasional post or climbing tree. 

  


Billy finds himself on the loveseat next to Steve, their fingers intertwined. His other hand is busy petting Celest across her head and gently poking at her ears when she gets too comfortable. Each time he stops, Celest grabs him with her paw and does her petulant _mrowr _until he starts again. Coincidentally enough, it reminds him of Steve. 

  


“You’re like a cat,” Billy glances over at Steve who has his free hand around a cup of hot tea. The look he gets, a mixture of incredulous and confused, makes him snort on a laugh. Celest immediately digs her claws into his thigh and he winces. 

  


“I think _you’re _more like a cat,” Steve argues as he squeezes Billy’s hand. He untangles their fingers and reaches up to slide his fingers through Billy’s hair. He scratches his scalp as he does and grins triumphantly when Billy leans into it. “See?” 

  


“That was a fucking trick,” Billy points out, but as soon as Steve starts to withdraw his hand, he leans and presses his cheek into his palm. 

  


“If the shoe fits,” Steve laughs and gives in, stroking Billy’s curls away from his face and tracing the curve of his earlobe. He tugs gently at the earring that dangles from his ear and then runs his thumb just beneath Billy’s jawline. 

  


It feels good. It’s soothing. Billy doesn’t know if he will ever be able to explain why Steve’s hands or the way he touches is so calming. It just _is_, and by the time the sun creeps over and starts to shine through all of their plants, he’s dozing against Steve’s shoulder. 

  


_ You were happy_. 

  


Billy’s fingers tighten in Steve’s. 

  


_ I _am _happy_. 

  



	4. Mohindigo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Steve/Billy at prom. Steve pinning the boutonniere to Billy’s suit and Billy crowning Steve after being crowned King. AU!
> 
> Or
> 
> Billy's crowned King, but he knows who is _actually_ King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last prompt for Harringrove for RAICES. It's been AMAZING and I'm so glad I was part of this project!

“It’ll be _ fine_,” Steve soothes as he places the pin on the lapel of Billy’s white suit. When he clips it, he arranges the blue-dyed rose. It counters the ocean blue bow tie perfectly. He looks up and can’t help the smile that creeps over his face. Billy’s eyes are wide, a sliver of panic mixed in with excitement. “Just _ remember_. Robin is wearing the dress just in case.”

“And I’m supposed to _ admit _ that I went to prom with _ Robin_?” Billy makes a face dumb enough that Steve has to pinch his cheeks both to be obnoxious _ and _ to make him stop. 

“Don’t be an asshole,” Steve chides, but it’s soft, affectionate. This is a conversation they have had several times leading up to prom. Billy has fallen apart on Steve’s bed, torn between angry and terrified that someone will notice or figure it out and it will get back to his old man. Steve can’t count the number of times he’s pressed frozen bags of vegetables to his face or body. He has a kit below the sink that used to gather dust after everything with the Upside Down. Now? It’s used to clean up blood smeared by hands that are supposed to nurture.

And, really? Steve has gotten good at it, even through Billy’s unpredictable fits that scream _ fury _ and hide _ hurt_.

“I’ve uh,” Billy starts and then stops, his jaw working hard enough to tick the muscle by his temple, “never had a date? With a guy? And this is like--Steve--you’re like, _ the guy _, so--”

Steve watches the heat gather in Billy’s cheeks. This is something that has only started recently. Billy tries to say something that is bouncing around in his mind and it gets tied up on his tongue. Being kind isn’t natural for him after his years of being shoved around and then, consequently, shoving others. He knows first hand about that shit.

Still, it’s fucking _ cute_.

“I can’t believe you forgot our first date,” Steve mutters while he runs the pad of his thumb up and down the lapel of Billy’s suit.

“Our what?” Billy’s eyebrows pinch together and his nose scrunches up, “I don’t remember us having a date.”

“I told you not to cream your pants,” Steve points out and Billy scoffs.

“That wasn’t a goddamn date. I beat your face in,” Billy reaches back and scratches along his neck. 

“I hit you first,” Steve grins in the face of Billy’s annoyance, “and I would have won without that plate.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Billy rolls his eyes, but Steve knows he’s flustered. “I couldn’t even stomach looking at you--”

“That is _ so rude_\--”

“God_dammit, _ Steve, you know what I mean.”

Steve grins, wide and amused, then clasps his hands over Billy’s jaw. He tilts his face up just enough so that he can catch his mouth in a gentle kiss. He knows what Billy means. They’ve been over this, but Billy sinks his teeth into self-deprecating behavior like Steve does to self-doubt. 

“You apologized,” Steve murmurs against Billy’s lips, “you even took the kids to get milkshakes. It’s _ fine_.”

Billy grunts and Steve steals whatever argument is bubbling beneath Billy’s skin by licking into his mouth. They kiss until they’re breathless, until Billy pulls away and mutters about needing to go before they both end up wrinkled and sweaty. They leave Steve’s house with their pinkies hooked together and butterflies fluttering in their stomachs.

~~

Billy is known for stealing the spotlight. He’s known for drinking up praise, so it isn’t exactly surprising that he wiggles his eyebrows and cackles when he’s crowned prom king. The crown is put on his head after he threatens something low about messing up his look. The sash that is placed over his shoulder and side says _ Prom King - Hawkins 1985_. While Billy listens to the Prom Queen ramble and giggle, he feels the burn of Steve’s eyes on his back. It licks a line of heat along his spine and the butterflies from earlier erupt into something fiercer, needier, _ demanding_.

Steve is stunning when Billy is finally able to spot him in the crowd while prowling down the steps from the stage. Steve’s blue tie is loosened, a couple of buttons undone, the result of them taking a few quick shots out of a flask and spiking their punch. His charcoal suit is still crisp, only a few strands of his carefully placed hair falling in front of his face. He’s flushed from the heat of the venue and what Billy hopes is watching him be crowned king. He’s the fucking picture of edible and Billy is _ starving_. He flicks his tongue out and over his lower lip, grin sharp and predatory when their eyes meet. He beckons Steve to follow him by wetting his lips and tilting his head. With plans set, Billy disappears behind the double doors with _ No Entry _ taped to them, knowing Steve will follow.

He and Steve find themselves in one of the “Faculty Only” bathrooms. Steve yanks Billy's button up out of his slacks and shoves his hand beneath the cotton. The chill of Steve's drink cold fingers against Billy's warm skin bows his spine. He sucks on Steve’s lower lip, drunk on those little gasps as his own hands fumble to find belt loops to pull Steve closer. The crown becomes crooked as he licks into Steve’s mouth and pivots his hips forward in a grind that leaves them both breathless. It isn’t much, but it’s all Billy can manage with how Steve has him pinned against the counter with his body. He’s aching in his slacks, a hot brand against Steve’s thigh with Steve’s mirroring his own.

“_Wait_, Steve--” Billy huffs a laugh into Steve’s mouth and tips his head back so he can breathe. “S’not why I got us in here.” But his fingers scrabble as Steve's mouth finds the column of his throat, that sensitive spot right below his jaw.

“Really? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure it is,” Steve sounds skeptical, especially when Billy can’t bite back the moan as Steve's thigh rocks against him. He squirms and then tightens one hand on Steve's hip. He buries his other hand in Steve's hair, curls his fingers, and tugs like he knows Steve likes--just to get his attention.

“No, really,” Billy knows his skin is pink and his pupils are blown out. He knows he’s the definition of _ want _ , but he also wants something that, in his mind, is more important than getting off. “Sweetheart, c’mon,” he says it sugar-sweet, like his tongue is coated in honey, and Steve melts against him. Billy isn’t normally so affectionate, so his endearments turn Steve into a puddle of useless goop. 

“Okay, _ okay_,” Steve sounds almost offended. Billy laughs and drops his hand from Steve's hair to his chest, pushing with just two fingers. Steve takes a step back. It isn’t a big step--it leaves just enough room for Billy to shift on the sink and hop up so he can sit on the lip of it. When he crooks a finger at Steve, he wets his lower lip with his tongue and rewards Steve’s step closer with a fond smile that he saves for just him.

Without speaking, Billy reaches up and gently untangles the crown out of his curls. He holds it with one hand while sweeping hair away from Steve’s forehead with the other, tucking a couple of too long strands behind his ear. After ensuring that Steve’s hair is _ just right_, Billy settles the crown on his head and then braces his hands on the lip of the counter.

“Perfect,” Billy murmurs, “you’re perfect, _ King _ Steve.”

The smile that brightens Steve’s face and the pink that colors his cheeks are absolutely better than any orgasm Billy thinks he could reach in this tiny bathroom.


End file.
